


pluto

by meowcosm



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Coming Out, Dreams and Nightmares, Family Dynamics, Internalized Homophobia, Letters, M/M, Medication, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Mentioned Mercedes von Martritz, Minor Annette Fantine Dominic/Mercedes von Martritz, Pet Names, Slow Burn, depictions of trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:00:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 20,104
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25390519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meowcosm/pseuds/meowcosm
Summary: pluto, silly goosewhy did you hidebehind covenants of shame?-gilbert has his post-war life planned out.there's nowhere for him to go but back home, after all, regardless of whether anyone wants him there. his bags are packed; and his final goodbyes are ready to be said.that's until he receives a letter from his estranged wife, revealing that she's taken another lover and uprooting his life once again. finding shelter in the under-reconstruction Garreg Mach, he's left to ponder the path he'll walk for the rest of his life.that is, until hanneman decides 1. he's going to keep the ex-knight around, and 2. to rely on Manuela's help in dragging him to the shores of whatever dark waters he's found himself stuck in.what follows are several month's worth of letters, difficult conversations, dreams, herbal remedies and, eventually, healing.
Relationships: Hanneman von Essar & Gilbert Pronislav, Hanneman von Essar/Gilbert Pronislav, Manuela Casagranda & Gilbert Pronislav, Manuela Casagranda & Hanneman von Essar
Comments: 9
Kudos: 17





	pluto

**Author's Note:**

> if you're reading this: legitimately, thank you for taking a chance on this fic!
> 
> there are portions which draw heavily on internalized homophobia, themes of mild violence and mental illness, nightmares and the experience of being newly medicated. if any of these may upset you, i'd encourage you to take care of yourself and click away.

Since the end of the war, Gilbert had acclimatised to his dreams. 

He’d never been a heavy sleeper- not even when the years began to wear on his body. But when the first screams of the past had rung through his head, one month after the tragedy, his capacity to receive a full night’s rest had deteriorated almost completely. Even in the days of relative safety, he’d had too much violence caged inside to achieve any meaningful solace, awake or asleep. It had made him moody and ineffectual, much too turbulent to achieve anything worthwhile. His capability to pay attention diminished, his body weak underneath him. Feelings which did not cease chased him to and from his bed each day, the shimmering, haunting promise of a dream which displayed something different always just out of reach. 

He’d chased his relief out of Fhirdiad; and towards the Knights of Seiros. It was not the sole reason, granted. But when the different walls around him had granted him the peace of mind he’d needed to regain even a few hours’ rest, he’d amalgamated that feeling in amongst the reasons he could not leave for home once more. And though he was never fully spared of the unquiet voices of the dead, it was enough to stop his body from failing underneath him. 

It was better that way, regardless of its wrongness. A depressing line of thought, perhaps. But one he’d faced before, and one he doubted wouldn’t rear its head again. 

-

He had promised himself that if he’d ever truly managed to reconcile with himself, as well as those around him, he’d return to Fhirdiad. A changed Fhirdiad, no doubt. But the place of his childhood; his knighthood; his life. 

He never did. He’d intended to, still, after the conclusion of the war. After finishing all the conversations he’d had with Annette, with Dimitri- with everyone he could make penance to. Others, too. Knights, members of the faculty, orphans housed in the monastery after the destruction of their homes. Anyone, really, who was insistent enough to move past the defenses he’d established, and who wasn’t too put off by the idea of the idea of an old man with nothing worthwhile to offer them but talk of times long before. 

Indeed, if he was pushed, Gilbert might have admitted a particular fondness for a specific individual. Who, in that admittance, would remain unnamed. And hopefully unpredictable- there was, on the surface, nothing too worthy of uniting them in friendship. 

But, as evidenced by his continued presence in the monastery, albeit without the brand of the Knights, his mind has been changed. By many things, key amongst them the letter he’d received days before his departure homewards.

He’d read it with the knowledge there was nothing good to be found within. Nothing marked with the stamp of his house, bearing the name of his estranged wife, could be a portent of good omens. In the stark light of morning, he’d broken the seal, and retrieved the letter from within the humble envelope.

It had contained exactly what he’d predicted. Not a refusal to welcome him home; necessarily. Instead, the assurance that while he was not to be a  _ persona non grata _ in the territory, he did not have place in the family. Not after the things he’d done; not after the things dear Chantelle had done. Namely, her taking of another lover, who she spoke of freely in the text of the letter. A young man, at least in comparison to Gilbert. Sprightly, and deeply attracted to her. They did not intend to marry; not for the absence of love, but for the convenience of keeping a relationship out of the public eye. Amongst a frank, and therefore rather dour, description of their current situation, she had noted that Annette was aware. Had been aware before him, even, and had met this  _ Robert _ . She’d given them her blessings, not seeking to contend their affair. 

Gilbert did much the same. He’d spent the rest of the morning, writing desk illuminated by the early-Autumn sunshine, scratching out a response containing nothing but congratulation. Perhaps his contentment was exaggerated- but who was he to refuse the dearest mistake he’d ever made her happiness? 

He’d always known, in some part of him, that there was nothing founding their relationship but the necessity of status. Which was not to say that he hadn’t _ liked _ Chantelle. He had- he continued to like her. More than many people he’d ever met. She was, and remained, an insightful; charming; wonderful; well-mannered woman, one whose flesh he could not bear to touch nor look upon. And Gilbert could not help the thought that if their relationship had continued as solely one of friendship, perhaps things could have been for the better. 

Of course, such was a selfish thought. A type of thought that Gilbert had realized, even if it took him the span of years, he was particularly prone to. For as much as he hoped that things were different; they were not. They were the way they were; he could neither fix or ignore them. And as part of the course for the first and only time they’d touched each other, Chantelle had given him Annette. The most deserving person in his life, who he had done such wrong to. 

Neither of them left. He had left them, and following his apologies, they had come as close as they could without encouraging his further troubled interference. In the space without them; Gilbert was free. To do what he wished, away from the trouble he had caused.

He had, then, one problem: that he did not know  _ what _ he wished. Or, if he did, it was locked somewhere inside him, as his true feelings were wont to be. 

-

The first person he’d shown the letter to, barring himself, was Hanneman. They’d planned to meet for tea one final time prior to his departure back to Faerghus; no doubt, Hanneman had prepared his most elaborately Adrestian farewells for the supposedly ultimate gathering. It was almost a shame, Gilbert supposed, that he hadn’t been able to use any of them.

“You should know,” he’d began, unwilling to operate under a now-false pretense, “that I shan’t be departing tomorrow.”

Hanneman had flashed him a dumbfounded look, and Gilbert had not blamed him at all. It was true that he spent much time talking about his eventual return, even if he had very little idea what he would do with himself aside from play tutor to the heir of Faerghus. The letter, as if to further dissuade his return, made marked notice that the role had been temporarily assumed by one of the Kings’ old classmates. A redhead; like him (the mention of which had constituted the sole shred of humour within the letter), and a commoner from the Alliance. Who bore promise to assume the role permanently, should he permit it. All of which he recounted to Hanneman, who had himself been making his way through the letter he’d been handed by Gilbert. 

“Do you intend to let that happen, then?” Hanneman had asked him, sipping gently on the tea they were sharing. “From what you’ve told me, you’ve known little else but that job.”

The mention of his time in the role had given him pause. Indeed, it was what he knew. Better than anyone else knew it, and better than anything else he knew. 

But it did not feel right to return. 

“I believe that renouncing the role would be in the spirit of Lambert’s reforms.” He took care to not refer to him as the late king- Dimitri was the king, and long may he reign.

In the glance Hanneman gave him, Gilbert could tell that his masking of the whole truth had not gone unnoticed.

“The king’s heir will benefit more from someone better equipped to keep pace with them, regardless.”

Hanneman had paused at that, before taking another sip. 

“I will be the first to admit that I do not know much of the art of physical training. Aside from where it has been relevant to my research, of course. But I have no doubt in your abilities.”

“You think I should return, then?” 

“No.” It had been a firm response; firm enough to surprise Gilbert. “What I mean to say- and I hope to not sound intent on flattery- I believe that your skills are not devoid of use just yet.” 

As was often the case in their conversations, Gilbert experienced the rapid lighting and extinguishing of a flame inside of him. Lit upon the point where he realized that Hanneman was once more plying him with compliments; quashed by the guilt which tended to overtake him when he considered the matter any further. 

“So you suggest I put them to some other use, then?” he inquired, trying his best to give no clue as to his compromised mental state.

“Very much so.” He’d sipped his tea once more- Gilbert was waiting for his to cool to his liking, which was significantly cooler than Hanneman liked his. Sometimes, Gilbert wondered how Hanneman hadn’t scalded his mouth. “You’re aware that we’re resuming classes at Garreg Mach next spring, correct?” 

He was- Hanneman had informed him in the first place, soon after he’d received the news. At the time, he’d been overjoyed, as the school funded much of his research and provided him an outlet for educating others on his studies. His happiness had tempered since then, but he managed to radiate an aura of contentment whenever the topic was addressed regardless. 

“Of course.” 

“Wonderful. The reopening looks to put several items on the agenda, however. Our primary topic of concern is hirings, of course.” He was smiling, and Gilbert had a fair idea of where his soliloquy was headed. He wasn’t sure if he liked it, either. “My position, and Manuela’s, is spoken for. But Byleth has- as you well know- ascended to the archbishopric. What was taught by his hand now lacks its teacher.” 

“Hm.” Gilbert raised his hands, hesitant, to table-level, and pressed one finger against the rim of the teacup. 

_ Still too warm _ . 

“I do not think I could compensate for the absence of Professor- Archbishop- Byleth. What they taught includes subjects that are beyond my scope.” 

“If you will not discount yourself so quickly, Gilbert- I was simply extrapolating the situation. I do not expect you to take up a permanent role of tutelage.” Hanneman hummed, briefly. “We are, however, requiring a combat tutor. One without a penchant for the kidnapping of young women.” 

_ Had it really been five years since the Death Knight emerged? _

“You qualify for both, and you boast a wealth of experience.”

“I-”

“Also,” Hanneman interjected, “if you wish to remain faithful to the goals of the late King Lambert, you may find some opportunity to do so. We’ll be taking in students from a range of backgrounds, and I have no doubt that Lambert would have seen it fit to provide them an education fit for a young heir.”

In that moment, Gilbert hesitated. Hanneman, as he tended to be, was right. Or at the very least, insightful. Gilbert had few places to go besides home, and though he was sufficiently equipped in terms of survival skills to stake a claim somewhere in the wilderness, to do so would be a potentially undignified nuisance. His days of carefree hardiness were over; the strange aches which emerged often in his body were testament enough to that. The monastery could easily provide shelter for the rest of his days, alongside gainful and fulfilling employment. He had friends there- more than he had anywhere else.

He had Hanneman. 

“And, if it’s worth any favour, I’d be honoured to have your companionship. Not only for your skills, but for the quality of his company.” 

Another light flickering on, another light being quashed. It was an awfully turbulent sensation, and Gilbert hoped it didn’t show on his face. 

“I… Will see.” 

-

The next time he’d seen Hanneman was days later. 

That afternoon had proved to be sun-warmed and comfortable; likely one of the last to be as such, what with the progression of the year towards winter. For that reason, he’d gone wandering, with little else to do. His assistance in the reconstruction was no longer wanted; when the younger knights had seen how frequent his contributions were, they’d advised him to take a break from the work, and barred him from it when he’d (politely) refused. Initially, he’d gone to pray, stooping his knees on the stone floor of the cathedral, eyes turned towards the sacred depictions of the saints and histories. Eventually, though, it had tired him. And though he’d switched to the pews, he was soon aware that the reservoir of solace he’d located through prayer was running dry. 

  
It had been time to move on. 

He’d found himself, after a short walk, in the classroom which once housed the Blue Lions house. Some long-dormant instinct compelled him to take the seat he had taken long ago; positioned so as it would catch the warmth of the sunlight as it passed overhead the monastery. And though the time was not right for it to project the rays down onto the desk, he could remember with aching fondness the way it had felt when it was, the sweet incipience of the world bearing down on him. 

Such feelings of melancholy remembrance, however, were quickly interrupted. In the corner of his eye, Gilbert caught the presence of something other than him- something moving, close to the blackboard where lectures were once given. Sufficiently camouflaged to evade his immediate attention, it took him a moment of focus to pick out the true source of the movement. 

A human figure, clad in grey and brown. Their back towards Gilbert, sporting a distinctive haircut- 

_ Hanneman _ . 

It made sense. He had always been the sort to become so deeply engaged in his work that he could hardly be disturbed by someone’s entrance. And the colouration of his getup meant that he blended quite neatly enough into the background of the old classroom, enough that Gilbert hadn’t noticed him at all upon his entrance. 

That had left Gilbert with a crisis. The chance that Hanneman hadn’t picked up on his entrance was favourable; after all, he had always been the one to insert himself around Gilbert when the opportunity arose. Regardless, he had walked into the room while Hanneman was in it; and for that reason he owed him a greeting, at the very least.  _ But _ , he thought to himself, fingers turning over themselves in the crook of his lap,  _ how best to get his attention _ ? 

He could always approach him from behind, of course. Though to do so might frighten him, which was the last thing Gilbert intended to do. Alternatively, he could call out from the back of the class, as if he were the same schoolboy that he once was, long ago. But it would be undoubtedly awkward if Gilbert was to activate any latently professorly behaviours. As much as he _ felt _ , sometimes, that Hanneman was teaching him, there was no need for it to happen like that. 

Before he could chase that line of thought further, a voice in the distance snapped him out of his daze. 

“Gilbert.” 

The solitary mention of his name reminded Gilbert of old military drills; full of strict regimentation and classically Faerghian obedience. His back straightened, and his arms came to rest flat by his sides, all before he could stop his body’s motion. 

He had recognized the voice, though, and he knew that despite his instincts, such domination over the bodily realm was not necessary here. It was, as Gilbert had observed, Hanneman. Who had not turned to face him, but was evidently more aware of his presence than Gilbert had assumed. 

“I’m glad you’ve joined me, even if you haven’t felt the need to announce it.”

Regardless of the fact that Hanneman could not see him, Gilbert hung his head, apologetic. 

“My sincerest of apologies, Hanneman.” 

As the words slipped from his mouth, Gilbert realized that, at some point, he’d stopped referring to Hanneman as Professor. Perhaps it was the fact that he did not truly teach any more, not with the closure of the Officer’s Academy for the time being. Or perhaps it was that they had grown familiar enough to drop the pretense of formality, with Gilbert having slipped, and Hanneman having allowed it.

He hoped that it was the former; still, an unquiet part of him acknowledged that the latter was more likely. After all, they hadn’t spoken properly prior to the outbreak of the war, during which time Hanneman was as much of a professor as he was a noble- only when technicalities were considered. 

“Truthfully, I did not notice your presence until you spoke up.” A white lie, but one Gilbert considered easier than putting words to the strange crisis his brain had thrust him into regarding the theoretical politeness of catching his attention in various different fashions. 

“That’s perfectly alright.” 

At that, Hanneman stepped away from the board he’d been writing on, revealing a great mass of white-chalk diagrams and calculations inscribed on it by hand. Much of it, barring only the simpler mathematical concepts, escaped Gilbert, though he had no doubt that Hanneman would explain it in more depth if he asked. 

“I am the sort to get rather deep into my work.” 

That was one of the things they had in common- dedication. Gilbert had long pushed himself to the limit in regards to training, and Hanneman researched in much the same fashion. Perhaps their difference was found in their ability to take respite from their commitments. 

“But- now you’re here-” Hanneman continued- “I’d be happy to prepare us tea. Perhaps you’d be kind enough to bring me to the pond again, so that you can demonstrate your fishing again.”

In the course of one of their first conversations, Hanneman had suggested that they embark upon a hobby together. Something which did not befit the youth well, in particular. After a while of thinking on the subject, Gilbert had chosen fishing. It was much too tedious for the impatient hand, and the environment provided welcome tranquil. Despite his initial hesitation at sharing his hobby with Hanneman, the two of them had found it a rather welcoming paired activity, with Gilbert gradually introducing Hanneman to the more theory-aligned aspects of baiting and pond-stocking. 

“Do not go out of your way simply because of my presence.” Gilbert mumbled. “Your work seems to be important. I do not wish to distract you.”

To Gilbert’s slight surprise, Hanneman sighed. Not a sigh of humoured disappointment at Gilbert’s insistence on training so harshly, nor a sigh that indicated sleep. Rather, it was one of frustration.

“I do not think that it will make much of a difference.” he grumbled. “I’m making no progress. Some problems need to be looked at from another angle, and I don’t think I’ve hit upon the right one yet.” 

Another thing Gilbert admired about Hanneman- that his resilience was coupled with knowledge of when best to retreat. He admitted silently to himself that had it been him, facing an equivalent problem, he would have remained perhaps  _ too _ dogged in the face of said adversity. 

“If that is truly how you feel, I would be honoured to show you back to the pond.”

Not that Hanneman didn’t know where it was- Gilbert simply wished to be polite. 

“A kind offer, Gilbert. I suppose you won’t mind me taking up on it, then.”

Gilbert nodded, and watched as Hanneman slipped away from the chalkboard he had been writing on down to the back of the room where he still remained. Before he could fully resolve himself to emerge from his seat, Hanneman had already made his way down. Instead of exiting the classroom through the front door, waiting for Gilbert to emerge on his own time, he’d taken a detour to the right, resulting in him standing behind Gilbert’s chair at the single desk. 

Almost pressed to his back, he stooped downwards, his face hovering over Gilbert’s shoulder. Close enough to his face that Gilbert could feel the brush of his facial hair, softer and much more well-trimmed than Gilbert had ever been able to make his own. 

He peered down, down at some notes that did not exist, as if he had never ceased being a professor. 

“My.” he whispered. “I’m glad to see that someone has been paying attention.”

The first thing Gilbert thought to ask him was what on  _ Earth _ he was intending to do, pressing up so close to his back and murmuring in his ear. But, he conceded that it was more likely for him to be parodying the role he had once taken in the school than deliberately riling Gilbert up by coming so close. Still, that did not negate the strange intimacy of their positioning, the way Hanneman’s head was resting in the crook of his neck.

“I doubt that I would get far listening to a lecture of yours.” Gilbert mumbled, voice coming out flustered. “What you have written is far beyond my understanding.” 

It was- diagrams of Crest sigils, mathematical equations, family trees and chemical symbols. Nonsense which likely constituted a great meaning once it was put together- so long as the one who did so was better versed in the material than he was. 

“Perhaps that’s true,” Hanneman conceded, “but you’re the diligent sort, aren’t you? I can’t imagine you not putting in a strong effort.”

That, Gilbert supposed, was a fair assessment. Though he’d always been almost entirely magically inept, he’d nonetheless received a solid grade on the subject during his education, having spent much of his time outside of training and missions trying to gain a better understanding of the theory involved. 

“I suppose.” he mumbled, trying to project some humility. 

  
A low, rumbling laugh emerged from the back of Hanneman’s throat, brisk and honey-smooth against Gilbert’s cheek. Not only could he feel each short peal of breath against his skin, but he could feel the way Hanneman’s throat shifted against his shoulder. It made him near-febrile, for reasons he dared not consider, and with a start, he took to his feet, palms clenched. 

“...You wished for me to bring you to the fishing pond, correct?” 

Hanneman seemed startled by Gilbert’s strange outburst; hesitating to speak for a few moments. The silence made Gilbert feel a twinge of guilt in his stomach, aware as he was of his irrationality. After he caught his breath, he held his hands behind his back, and nodded with genteel politeness. 

“Indeed. I shall let you lead the way.”

Body still rigid, Gilbert walked over to the now-shut doors to the room and held one open, walking out of the classroom in the process. The sunlight beat down on him once more, and as Hanneman followed his lead, the fierce illumination illustrated his frame in a fashion that Gilbert found overwhelming to observe. He _ glistened _ , as if he was the source of the warmth that Gilbert took his rest in. 

His hands twitched at the thought; still, there was to be no backing out. 

“What a pleasant day.” Hanneman remarked. 

Silently, Gilbert agreed. 

-

For all the fuss that had been made between the two of them regarding being shown to the pond; both knew where it was located, and neither struggled to reach it. Still, Gilbert extended Hanneman the courtesy of his guidance, accepting the presence which followed behind him as inevitable. He did his best, too, to not think too much of Hanneman’s presence, nor to overthink the gaze which was planted firmly on his back. 

The journey to the pond was not long; familiar with it as they both were. They soon found themselves on the dock, facing the body of water which extended into the distance. It glimmered, the sun reflecting on the still water, insects buzzing over its surface. 

Without prompting, Hanneman sat down on the dock, legs crossed in the way that Gilbert had demonstrated before. Caught in a ray of sunshine, he sighed, and shifted his weighty scholar’s jacket off of his shoulders. It dropped, soft, in a way that Hanneman seemed to take no notice of. He leaned back, too; the shift of lean, graceful shoulders evident underneath the thinner fabric of his undershirt. Such a demonstration made Gilbert feel as if he should avert his eyes. But at the same time, to do so would be to admit that there was something about the display which stirred him. Such an admission would likely incur greater guilt than of his observance of the spectacle; for that reason, Gilbert kept his eyes fixed on the simple movements Hanneman made.

“It’s hard to believe this is an October afternoon, hm?” 

Once more, Hanneman’s words jolted Gilbert from his contemplative state. At least they were not making eye contact- he was not sure if he could bear the embarrassment of Hanneman finding him staring, eyes wandering to the shift of his body underneath his clothes. 

“Very much so. In northern Faerghus, a day as warm as this, yet so late in the year- it would be interpreted as a sign from the Goddess.”

Hanneman muttered something under his breath, Gilbert catching nothing but a sharp  _ hmmm _ . 

“I’ve heard that it can snow as early as this in Faerghus. Is that hearsay?” 

Gilbert shook his head; regardless of the fact that Hanneman was not looking upon him, but instead upon the infinitely small movements of the water underneath. 

“For such to happen… it would be uncommon. But, certainly not impossible. I have seen it several times throughout my life.”

“I assume you’ve gotten used to it, then.” Hanneman chuckled, good-humoured. “Personally, I don’t know if I could. When I studied in Enbarr, I found that many of the students liked to while away their time napping in the sunlight.” 

“I am not sure if napping weather would do me much good.” Gilbert stated, blunt. 

“And why is that?” 

“I do not sleep well.” he replied. “To wake from a distressing dream in a public place would likely only humiliate me.”

“Gilbert,” Hanneman prompted, “you’ve never mentioned sleeping restlessly to me before.”

At that, Gilbert couldn’t repress a blush, one he was thankful Hanneman couldn’t see. The fact that Hanneman remembered the things he said already endeared him; the concern evident in his voice made the statement almost overwhelming. Still, he was determined to appear hardened, lest he display some dangerous vulnerability. 

“I did not imagine that it concerned you. You have much more to focus on than my dilemmas, regardless.”

Though Hanneman did not face him, the back-and-forth of Hanneman’s head made it clear to Gilbert that he was shaking it in disagreement. 

“Hardly. Regardless of what occupies me, if there is something which weighs on you, I would be happy to lend you a listening ear.”

A strange feeling hit Gilbert’s stomach, akin to a rock being dropped into a bottomless pool of water. Reaching nothing, going somewhere that it did not understand.

_ If only he knew. _

“We are friends, Gilbert. You mustn’t continue to punish yourself with such severe silence.” 

“...It is a remnant of the past.” Such a thing felt awkward to concede, but Hanneman had undeniably managed to back him into a corner. “I have had the misfortune to see many deeply unfortunate things, and to be straddled with the guilt of having been unable to prevent them.” 

It occurred to him, then, that this was one of the few times he’d managed to put voice to the idea of his guilt. Aside from Byleth and Annette, he’d kept such sentiments caged inside of him. Perhaps it was obvious to others that he felt such things; Gilbert could not know. But he rarely allowed himself such emotional frankness, and the moment that he had spoken, it had become too late to take his sentiment back. 

Some strange part of him didn’t want to. It felt liberated- freed, even- by the virtue of being able to address his feelings in front of another person. 

“I cannot change your experiences- I will say that to you now. But,” Hanneman contemplated, “I do not think you are obligated to some silent suffering. Punishing yourself is unnecessary.” 

“I am afraid it comes as instinct.” Gilbert replied. “I cannot see a way for me to change such behaviours.”

“But it is unnecessary for them to impact your sleep. If nothing else, I recommend that you visit Manuela.” 

_ A recommendation of Manuela, from Hanneman? Truly, the moon must be hanging crooked in the sky. _

“She has dealt with more than her fair share of those troubled by distressing memories. While truly dissuading the guilt may be a more momentous task than is ideal, treatments are available to mitigate its intrusion into your dreams.”

Truthfully, Gilbert had not heard of such medicines. He had not considered that they might exist- perhaps it was for the best that he first heard of them now, for during even darker times, he did not doubt that he would have insisted against them. 

“And you believe that it would help?” 

Hanneman nodded. “I cannot say for sure how much good it will do. Like all magic and medicine, it is never quite what we wish it would be. But if there is one thing I have learned through my research- unrelated to crests, that is- it is that we must try to better ourselves, even if we will inevitably fall short of heaven.”

Somewhere in Gilbert’s mind, a chuckle broke out. 

_ How delightfully Hanneman to reference his research in some everyday conversation, completely unrelated to the matter at hand _ . 

_ How typical of him to be right _ . 

“And if it did not help, then…” he pondered. 

Hanneman hummed, gently, as he contemplated it. As Gilbert predicted, he found his answer rather quickly. 

“Keep looking. Or seek some alternative.” 

“I… If you think it wise.” 

Hanneman nodded once more, having deigned not to speak. Gilbert knew that if he refused on the subject; he would be met with Hanneman’s great persistence. If he were to agree, and then disregard his advice in private, there was no doubt that Hanneman would know. For better or for worse, all of Manuela’s knowledge became Hanneman’s knowledge, and much the same happened in reverse. A river which, somehow, flowed both ways, its current inescapable. 

He had little choice but to surrender. 

“Excellent. I believe that it would do you some good. And I would wish for nothing more than that.”

At Hanneman’s words of affirmation, Gilbert could feel his palms heat, and his face develop the first trace of a flush. The things he spoke- they flustered him, more often than not. And despite the guilt inherent to seeking them, he could not deny the pleasure of being regarded with affection, nor could he restrain his strange desire to appease Hanneman’s wishes. 

Hanneman- he made surrender feel  _ good _ . Yet, Gilbert was sure that following such a line of thought would lead him nowhere pleasant. For that reason, he put it to the back of his mind.

He said nothing, then, but he stooped to the ground, the rough wood of the dock creaking slightly. Still, it remained unfazed. He shifted, mindful of his weight and his aches, til his legs hung from the side, hovering over the water. 

After what might have been a minute- what might have been an hour- of comfortable silence, Hanneman spoke. 

“I believe that we’ve both forgotten the fishing equipment, haven’t we?”

-

Stood outside Manuela’s office, head stooped low and hands fumbling in his pockets, Gilbert supposed it was not entirely a pessimistic statement to suggest that he’d been avoiding such a situation. Or, if it were, then it was not unwarrantedly so. 

In some parts, it had been unintentional. His relative wealth of free time did not leave him entirely unoccupied; his assistance oft-wanted enough that he struggled to remain completely directionless. Similarly, Manuela was an understandably busy woman. Reconstruction efforts lent themselves to a great deal of minor injuries- some from the work, some from the post-work drinking and cavorting. Not to mention the care for the orphans, the elderly, and the war-displaced. None of which he’d want to interrupt, of course. If he was to finally muster the courage to come, but found that Manuela was occupied by someone more deserving of help than he was- who could blame him for leaving it be? 

As he’d had the misfortune to find out, Hanneman could. It wasn’t blame, not necessarily- something closer to concern, impatience its sharp edge. After weeks of convenient avoidance, he had interfered on Gilbert’s part, insisting on Manuela reserving him some time. With the advance warning that he would likely refuse it at first, under the premise of prioritizing the severely wounded. 

Gilbert didn’t consider himself the most observant of people- such higher wit was best reserved to less banal of creatures. But in the moment when, true to Hanneman’s prediction, he had refused the hour Manuela had set aside, he was sure that he’d found the greatest source of consternation in their relationship- a mutual, ever-abiding bullish stubbornness. For it was not Hanneman who insisted on him taking up his advice, but Manuela, speaking much fiercer than he had witnessed previously. 

“I do know, Gilbert,” she’d said, pointedly, “that you lurk outside my office. And that you make no eye contact with anyone who comes in.” 

She’d punctuated her speech with a sigh, then, Hanneman looking over at her with the most approval Gilbert had ever seen him express for her actions. 

“It’s as if you’re waiting to be executed.” Hanneman had added. 

“Would it not be easier for you to get whatever ordeal you’re so frightened of over with?” 

He’d found it hard to disagree- he’d never found it easy, not in the face of such a sharp and charming figure. Like a dagger concealed by a stocking- a beautiful,  _ dangerous _ wit. And that was solely Hanneman. 

For that reason, he was where he was. Back pressed to the stone wall, hands pressed behind his back. The pressure, light as it was, alleviating some of the most persistently negative thoughts. 

_ There is nothing to fear,  _ he told himself.  _ You have received medical attention an uncountable amount of times _ . 

Still, he could deny that there was something exceptional about this instance. For the fault was not located in his body, but in his mind, unable to be exorcised by the means he was used to. Unfamiliar terrain- not to mention the ordeal of explaining his state of mind to Manuela. Who would likely abstain from mocking him, of course, but who was not exempt from judging him for the troubling weakness of his mind. 

His hands clenched once more, balling up the fabric of his cloak. 

_ You cannot think like this. If you continue to act out of fear, you will once more alienate those who care for you. _

In the turmoil-wracked depth of his brain, he repeated the sentiment over and over again. It was all he could do to abide the scarce minutes until Manuela welcomed him into her office; some small thing which prevented him darting like a frightened rodent. 

Indeed, it was only a familiar voice which broke him from his waiting state. 

“Gilbert?”

A deep sigh wrenched its way from his lungs. Slowly, he let his fists uncurl, the fabric behind him dropping as he did. 

“...Yes.”

“You’re welcome to enter.” 

Still-hesitant, his first steps into the small diagnostic room were tentative. For a man whose heavy footsteps tended to announce his presence before he could; the slightness of his walking was strange even to Gilbert himself. Still, it was not long before he ceased, taking seat on a chair placed adjacent to another- though the other one was cushioned, and Gilbert intuited that it was likely Manuela’s. Manuela followed him, Gilbert taking notice of how she sat with her legs pointedly crossed.

_ Much like Hanneman, _ he’d thought.  _ Perhaps it is an Adrestrian thing. _

“It’s good to see you.” Manuela chirruped, clearly- and embarrassingly- surprised to find Gilbert in front of her. “I’m glad that you’re here.” 

Gilbert, though he held much the opposite viewpoint, nodded respectfully at the sentiment. If he could be nothing else, then he would be courteous. Still, he remained silent, unsure of what he could possibly say. Indeed, it took the return of Manuela’s lilting voice for the conversation- as much as it could be called one- to resume. 

“I…” Gilbert started, pausing afterwards, clearly unsure where his train of thought was to take him. “I hope that you have been well.”

_ Inoffensive _ , he repeated to himself, silent in the confine of his mind.  _ Displaying concern for the other’s welfare _ . Key elements of polite conversation, picked up from the codes of chivalry he’d had to read through extensively during his youth. 

“I have.” Manuela’s answer was curt- curter than Gilbert had expected. Curt enough that it took him ever so slightly aback. “I’ve been as well as I’ve been busy, at least.”

Gilbert coughed- once, plainly. Once more, he found himself stuck in conversation, unsure of where to find his path. Words simmered in his throat, but they did not emerge, and he found himself wishing for the same sort of injuries he had tended to receive in his younger days, where the imprint of blood made the site of healing obvious and easily communicable. To explain his presence at that moment was a burden, one that laid heavy upon him. 

In those moments he’d spent with his eyes defocused and his mind heavy with thought, Manuela had found time to slip a piece of parchment from a box underneath a table, a box which Gilbert hadn’t noticed, alongside a quill and a stained vial of dark ink. By the time he had given up on himself, and resigned himself to remaining silent until Manuela could give him some better prompt, each item had been placed on the table in front of him. Indeed, as he focused once more on the tangible world in front of him, the sudden presence of the items nearly startled him. 

“...You will be taking down my description of this condition, then?” Gilbert intuited, nervous. With a medic’s patience, Manuela nodded, simultaneous with her dipping the quill into the vial. 

“Don’t worry yourself about it.” Manuela reassured him, having evidently picked up on the hesitancy in his voice. “Each of these records is strictly confidential. A secret, if you like.”

Something burned inside Gilbert at the notion of a  _ secret _ \- a word which reminded him of the  _ forbidden _ , the  _ shameful _ . Still, lacking a retort, and admittedly comforted by Manuela’s assurance that the file was to be privy solely to them, he nodded. 

With practiced cursive, Manuela scratched Gilbert’s name onto the parchment. After a moment of consideration, she noted down two other words by the title, words which took Gilbert a little longer to read from the position he had taken.    
  
_ GILBERT PRONISLAV - SLEEP ISSUES _

If he were not determined to keep himself constrained, Gilbert was sure that he would have sighed at the sight of the phrase. Though admittedly vague, and far from a violation of privacy, for Manuela to have found out about his problems already- it incurred some complicated feelings, most prominently embarrassment. Still, he had little choice but to press onwards, regardless of how his feet called for him to bolt impulsively out of the room.

“I’ve found out some broader details from Hanneman,” Manuela began, resting her quill on a sheet of already-stained blotting paper, “but I’d like for you to describe the nature of your issue.”

“How much depth do you require of me?” Gilbert mumbled. 

  
Manuela smiled, and tapped her finger on the table. “Well- the more you provide, the better my 

recommendation can be. And- once more- I promise that this is entirely confidential.  _ Entirely _ .”

_ She is more perceptive than I would like _ , Gilbert ruminated. Still, he did his best to be attentive, facing Manuela as best as he could. 

“Very well. I do not know the most appropriate fashion to describe these issues, however.”

“It might help,” Manuela began, “to consider the impact that your issues have on you.”

In his mind, Gilbert broke from the conversation to consider the reason for their meeting- the troubles with his sleep- in more depth. 

Truthfully, there were nights where his sleep was entirely sufficient. Those nights were dreamless, untroubled by strange images which stirred and frightened him so deeply when they occurred. If he were to wake without any impression of what his unconscious mind had conjured, then he could go through the day with the vigor of a young man, provided that it was not unfortunate in other ways. But the nights in which he dreamed were, without exception, fearful ones, littered with visions of death and suffering. Each failure which burdened him was pushed to the forefront of his mind, with little recourse. He had found no reliable way to break free of the dreams as he experienced them, nor to banish them before they could occur. It was as if his brain was mired, as still as a body preserved by a bog. 

Those words, however, became trapped as they came, and Gilbert only managed to mutter out a half-coherent stream of independent statements. 

“I have- dreams, most nights, all very terrible- I see a great many things. Most of which are simple recreations of what has occurred long before.”

Despite the stuttering pace of his speech, Manuela took each statement down with diligence, glancing up at him occasionally to reaffirm his comfort. At each glance, Gilbert had felt both further unnerved and comforted; akin to the sensation of approaching a sharp fall. 

_ Though the knowledge of its height may reassure you, the issue of the drop will become only more prescient as the moments pass _ . 

He’d heard the words from an old military captain- gruff, and battle-scarred, but whom Gilbert had always regarded as a handsome and honourable man. 

He’d left, one day, and Gilbert had never found out why. When the rumours reached him, he’d decided it was best that he not know the truth.

He, too, was oft-featured in the writhing curse of his nightmares.

“What sort of thing tends to be recreated in your dreams?” Manuela asked, laying her quill down once more on the blotting paper. Her head was rested on her hand; an attempt to seem personable, like a listening ear. Gilbert wasn’t sure if it worked- still, he continued.

“Horrors. Broadly.” he muttered. “I have seen much violence in my life. I do not feel as if I will ever escape it; even if I am to retire in my later life.”

Truthfully, Gilbert had long-considered refusing his retirement. There was little contentment in being alone with his thoughts; prior to Hanneman’s entry into his life, his true confidants were few. What Dedue had told him after he returned was true- his body, though aging, had more to give than it had already given. There would be no comfort in a decline. Indeed, it would have been better for him to meet a violent end. 

He wasn’t sure of that- not anymore. To throw himself directly into the wretched stomach of violence no longer seemed so inherently noble; nor did it seem a suitable way to keep fearful thoughts at bay. But if he were to adjust to a normal life, he would have to find some way of calming his dreams. 

_ That _ , Gilbert reminded himself,  _ is why you are here _ . 

Manuela gave him a kind look, one which provided some comfort, and picked up her quill once more, dipping it in the inkwell as she brought it down on the paper. 

“Could you describe one of these dreams?”

Gilbert sighed a sigh he didn’t realize he’d been holding. From the way Manuela frowned at him, he supposed that his face must have turned quite morose alongside it. Truthfully, he had expected this question, and dreaded answering it. 

Still, he obliged.

“...One… recurring dream, i-is of the Tragedy. It is not- exact. I am able to come closer to the event- so close that I feel almost as if I might be able to prevent it. The king’s carriage is within view, still proceeding down the streets.”

The grimace on his face spread wider, beginning to ache. 

“My efforts are wasted. The king falls to these shadowed killers. I am unable to stop the upswell of violence which sweeps everything around me.”

As part of the late-arriving supervising party, Gilbert had never reached Duscur. Camped out in mountain lodgings when the news was received- alongside an instantaneous recall for all troops approaching the border- he’d headed home with no more accurate image of the Duscurian capital than the one he’d found in an illustrated book twenty years prior. This place, nothing more than a compilation of watercolours and pencil-lines, formed his dreaming estimation of the scene. Back when he had first seen the image, he had been poorly-traveled, and wished to see the city for himself one day. 

Now, he could not stomach such an idea.

“I cannot protect the king.”

Manuela shot him a glance, a sort of investigative look, that made him feel strangely _ seen _ . As if Manuela was looking to interrogate some inextricable part of his soul, one that he himself might not be aware of. Gilbert shivered at the prospect. 

“I am never able to protect the king.”

Gilbert’s words were spoken with a choken misery, regardless of how still he had managed to keep himself. It did not surprise him- in the ten years prior, he had never spoken of his failure with objectivity. 

Gently, Manuela hovered her hand over the crook of Gilbert’s elbow, though she hesitated to complete the comforting touch. Weakly, Gilbert nodded, and her fingers wrapped around his lower arm, a brace to the shaking cries that ran through him. 

“You grieve for the king.”

It was a statement, rather than a question. Such did not surprise Gilbert- he realized that he had made the fact abundantly clear in his words, regardless of whether he had intended to let the sentiment slip. For it was  _ incorrigible _ , as far as he was concerned, the idea of a Faerghian man placing the king he had sworn to serve in such jeopardy. How could it  _ not _ ruin his self-image?

Though the answer was known; its provision unnecessary, he began to mumble it regardless.

“Yes.”

“You grieve,” Manuela restated, “for your inability to save the king.”

“Yes.” Gilbert repeated, finding it increasingly difficult to still himself, to cease shaking. “I have not stopped.”

He had, sometimes, been able to put it out of his mind. An upswell of guilt had always featured in the aftermath of these times; the shame of having allowed himself to forget the burden he took on. But with Hanneman, or Manuela herself, even the Empire soldiers who had defected to the army against Edelgard- they had not cared for his entanglement, and for a brief moment, neither had Gilbert. 

Most of the time, however, it remained.

“My soldiers never reached Duscur. We were in the mountains when we knew of the incident- we were to be recalled to Fhirdiad immediately.” Gilbert recounted, somber. “Much of that march has become nought but hazy memory to me. I could not tell you what I saw, what route we took, or who I was with.”

With the hand that did not calm Gilbert’s shaking, Manuela scratched more notes onto the sheet. It was strange, Gilbert thought, the idea of someone making his fearful memories into legible script. His guilt had begun to reside elsewhere, no longer confined to his thoughts. 

“It was as if all thought had been rendered from me. I could picture nothing but the death-gasp of the king, the sullen face of the Prince Dimitri, who we were told was alive- though his condition was critical.”

“Are these feelings, too, an element of your dreams?”

Gilbert nodded. He had never been able to escape that absence, that catatonia, that he had felt in those few days. As if it were the taste of some food turned wretched, never entirely cleaned from his tongue.

Diligently, Manuela took further notes.

“Are you ever spared this feeling?” Manuela inquired, once she’d finished. 

“Sometimes.” Gilbert replied. “The nights when I do not dream at all- they are the most peaceful. I feel nothing, and I sleep soundly.”

“Do you feel well rested?” 

The question could have made Gilbert chuckle, had the subject of their conversation not been so dire. He hardly ever felt  _ well _ , let alone  _ rested _ . But it was true that on those days, he did not find himself with such an excess of drowsiness, seeping into him throughout each hour of the day. 

“...Better rested.” he muttered. “Perhaps a more adequate way to describe it would be that, yes, I sleep without premature awakening, or latent exhaustion.”

More notes were scratched into Manuela’s document; by then, Gilbert had given up on reading them. The knowledge of her passing judgement on him was unwelcome- but he supposed it necessary, and lacked the constitution to protest. 

Her head was raised shortly after she finished, not just writing the notes but reading them over. Careful to avoid the still-drying ink, she rested her elbows on the table, and faced Gilbert once more. 

“That seems to be a good place to start, then.”

Gilbert stammered. “May I ask what does?”

“If you don’t dream,” Manuela replied, “then, hopefully, you’d get better sleep. Which might help you feel more receptive to talking about these things.”

A furrowing of brows made itself apparent on Gilbert’s face, lips turning downwards. “We are already discussing-  _ these things _ .”

From the worn grin which spread over Manuela, Gilbert got the impression that she had been in the throes of this conversation with others long before he entered the room. What he said must have been ridiculous- he flustered at the thought.

“Of course. But, nothing so complicated can be worked through so quickly.” 

_ Of course. I’m being impetuous again. Such behaviour could hardly be counted as amongst my greatest personality trait _ s, Gilbert admitted to himself. 

“Do you believe, then, that it will be best for us to meet again?”

“Yes,” Manuela replied, “and I hope that you’ll find it amenable. Struggles of the mind are often much like old wounds, or the strains of age- attention must be paid over a longer time than most injuries. A cut may be cleaned and stitched in a day”- Manuela made a stitching motion in the air, and Gilbert watched with diligence- “but the mind will remain troubled until you give it real attention.”

“How is it possible for you to fix my mind simply by talking to me?” Gilbert inquired. As far as he understood Manuela’s magic, she specialized in faith healing and practical medicinal practices- the concept of talk-medicine as a treatment seemed alien, threatening. 

But, he trusted her. 

“It’s not. Possible, that is.” Manuela replied, suddenly much more serious. “It’s as I said- some aches will never subside. Not entirely.”

In that moment, when Manuela told him that what plagued him could not be fixed, a feeling indescribable in nature washed over him. Once more, it was somewhere between great peril and great relief, of encroaching upon something which was far different than he had ever been able to predict. He could almost feel the rise of breath in his chest, the accelerated beating of his heart. 

“Why attempt my healing, then?” Gilbert pleaded, breath hurried. Manuela flashed a kind glance at him, tightening her grip around his lower arm. 

“These things may not be fixable, exactly- but they are worthwhile. As long as you consider your well-being worthwhile, that is.” 

“And if I do not?” 

“Well, it would be for the best. I can’t force you-” Manuela quipped “-but, wouldn’t you wish to feel better?”

Gilbert was, all things considered, tempted to say  _ no _ . Almost every decision he’d made, every thought he’d had since the death of the king- indeed, a great number of those he had prior to that incident- that was the answer that they spoke to. That he would not wish himself to feel anything close to pleasure or alleviation. 

Yet; something bucked within him, some subconscious rejection of the desire to be cruel to himself. He hesitated to speak them, but the words which emerged from Gilbert did not deny him hope. 

“...I am not against such a feeling. Though I cannot say that I deserve it, I- it would be best. If not for me, then perhaps for others.”

_ Annette _ . He’d done her no good, not for a long time, entirely out of his own volition- simply because he had felt himself worthless- thought he had  _ known  _ his worthlessness. 

There was to be no more of such  _ foolishness _ .

  
Hanneman, too. Who he cared for, scared as he was to admit such, and who had been troubled so deeply by the issues which he kept so deeply trapped inside of him. 

A smile worked its way onto Manuela’s face, amenable and content. 

  
“I’m glad that you agree. We’ll have to work on it some other time- I’d like to begin with something else, in the hope that it might assuage your dreams. But, whenever you need to process these things- please, do not hesitate to speak about it.”

Truthfully, Gilbert could not find it inside him to promise such behaviour. But he felt the desire to try, a desire deeper and more profound than he could remember it being since the war. He nodded, finding it difficult to summon the words which would communicate it more coherently. But his acceptance seemed sufficient for Manuela, evidently gratified by his agreement to such treatment.

“I’m glad. For the moment- would you be open to taking some remedies for sleeping troubles? I cannot guarantee that they’ll work, but they’re harmless, and, well- nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

Gilbert could tell that Manuela was once more in the position of trying to convince him. He tried to think about it objectively, without factoring in Manuela’s sweet words, her apparent concern. He’d promised himself, long ago, that he wouldn’t take such remedies. His mentor, back when he was a boy, had insisted that such things were follies- admissions of weakness, even. 

Still- enough of his youthful aims had been destroyed already. They had been fallible, in ways he had not expected, or been able to predict. 

Perhaps, greater things lied beyond his hesitation. 

“...I am…” Gilbert murmured… “ _ Amenable _ . To the prospect. Though I will not deny my hesitance.”

“I understand. There are always those who prefer to deal with things on their own time. But- will you allow me my honest opinion?” Manuela chirped.

Gilbert nodded- he saw no harm in it.

“You’ve been relying on self-preservation for far too long. You don’t need to  _ always _ be the strong Faerghian man. We’re all-  _ complicated _ , even if we wouldn’t like to be.”

“I… believe I understand. Though I am not sure if I am able to take it in, in its entirety, in this moment.” 

  
Manuela giggled- a lovely sound. Sometimes, he found it hard to believe that she struggled so greatly in finding a partner. He was not interested, but he could find no painless reason to feel such a way, and so he pushed such a thing from his mind. 

“Don’t push yourself. You’ll get there when you get there.”

Obediently, Gilbert nodded. He felt still, for the first time in a while, and suddenly nearing exhaustion.

“The medication I’d like you to take- though, please let me know if you don’t find it helpful after a while- is a simple supplement. Whenever you’re preparing to sleep, take these crushed herbs-” Manuela paused her sentence to open a drawer underneath her desk, plucking a reasonably sized, mild-smelling pouch from the wooden compartment- “after a drink, or brewed into a tea. Hopefully, you’ll find them soothing. Do you sew?”

“Yes, I do.”

“Then, a thimble will work as a reasonable measurement. What’s here should be a month’s worth- which is how long I’d like for you to take it. If you find yourself feeling worse, though, let me know- and don’t take it simply to appease me!”

Gilbert flushed, and fiddled with the fabric of his robes with his hands. In the course of their conversation, it seemed as if Manuela had gained an unexpected grasp on his personality. 

“I… shall do my best.”

“You’ll have to take it consistently, you know.”

Gilbert ducked his head. “...Very well.”

He took the pouch into his hand when Manuela offered it to him, feeling its weight in his palm. Its heaviness was satisfying- almost soothing. He nodded his head in acknowledgement, and slipped it into the pocket of his robes.

“I’ll see you in a month, then.”

Fighting back a yawn, Gilbert smiled at Manuela. He needed time to process this- but he could feel that a start was being made, at least.

“Of course. And- I thank you for taking time out of your day to see me.” 

-

To everyone’s surprise- including his own- Gilbert had begun taking the remedy frequently.

At first, he had doubted it. Not only did it seem against his better nature to take such a thing, but upon its first use, there was no sign of success. Another dream awoke him in the night, a frozen face with flesh both frayed and torn that jolted him on some primal level. He did not fall back asleep; and went through his long day half-awake. 

A further visit to Manuela had resulted in nothing but insistence that regular taking was necessary- that the treatment was akin to bandages over a fresh wound, which must be replaced consistently for them to be of any worth. He had sighed at the prospect- but, now that Manuela knew he had begun, he supposed there was no way he could simply avoid the topic anymore. He did trust her, after all. 

_ It would do no good to wash a body once, then assume yourself clean for a month _ , he’d told himself, sipping hesitantly on the tea he’d brewed on the second night. The floral taste was not unpleasant, but he couldn’t say that he enjoyed it, either. 

He made a note to ask Manuela if the herbs could be brewed alongside other varieties of tea. 

The third day- and the fourth day, for that matter- was much the same. Though the apparitions were much less severe, they still appeared, and Manuela had not spoken of the potential of his dreams decreasing in intensity. He chalked the changes up to luck; some days were simply worse than others. It was how it had always been, a game of chance. 

Still, he swallowed the herbs. He’d never know if he didn’t try. 

Such a state continued for the rest of the week; progressing into the next one, too. A schedule of regular daily activities- supervising the reconstruction, prayers in the cathedral, letters to Annette- interspersed by meetings with Hanneman- followed by a night of herb-swallowing and poor sleep. On the Friday, his sleep was dreamless, and on the following day, his bones seemed to ache hardly at all. But the fortune did not persist; the next night plagued with a novel vision of an old friend’s death, an event which took place years prior to Annette’s birth.

He woke, startled, and grieved for the relief he’d felt.

On the Sunday, he’d met with Hanneman. It was the day which occupied both of them the least; after Gilbert had given his morning prayers, there was little for him to do until the evening worship. Though he knew Hanneman did not seek the support of the Goddess as strongly as he did, he nonetheless invited the other man to kneel alongside him. His refusal had turned to acceptance once he’d realized that it was the best way to constrain Gilbert’s worship; if not attended to, there was always a chance that he would become so occupied by faith that their upcoming tea party would slip his mind. 

It was not that Hanneman seemed to care when Gilbert was late- neither of them had pressing obligations, and Gilbert had learned early on that Hanneman was used to drinking tea gone cold after lying untouched and forgotten, neglected while he was in the throes of his research. Indeed, his flustered expression at the realization the sky was much too high in the sky for the time he thought it was- for lack of better description, Hanneman had described it as  _ adorable _ . 

Upon hearing such a compliment, Gilbert had clammed up entirely, cheeks burning. He had not been described in such terms in his whole life, and even if he were given a thousand years for the task, he was unsure if he could ever find a suitable response. Instead of affording Hanneman some verbal retort, he’d sat down, sipped from his drink, and tried with great futility to quell the need to hear such sweet words once more. 

From then on, Hanneman had attended morning prayers. 

The Sunday had been cold, though far from overcast. At Hanneman’s inquiry as to whether he’d prefer to take his drink inside, he’d scoffed, insisting that there was nothing about him which should prevent him from enduring milder temperatures than usual. True to form, with his robes done up and the gazebo sheltering them from the absolute worst of the winds, he’d endured the chill, though he could see that Hanneman’s constitution suffered slightly for it. 

“I am doing just fine,” Hanneman had insisted, “and I will not be outdone by you. If you intend to take tea outdoors, then I will take tea outdoors with you.”

Gilbert had been close to opening his mouth in protest, but Hanneman had quelled him with the raise of a finger- for a moment, Gilbert truly believed that the touch was meant to rest on his lips, a thought which made his heart thrum. When he’d only hovered, he’d taken the message, and said no more on the subject of the weather. 

The conversation had gone as it often did- beginning with idle chatter about the work-week, before progressing onto news of Fodlanian current events. On Hanneman’s lips were stories of the new King of Almyra’s diplomatic visit, a large fire which had ripped through the Varley estate and a new bridge to be constructed in Enbarr. Things which would not keep Gilbert’s attention otherwise- but Hanneman spoke so sweetly, and so clearly, that he could not help but feel somewhat entranced. Gilbert followed with self-admittedly less engaging talk of his own day-to-day life, as well as the letters he’d received from Annette. Still, Hanneman paid attention- Gilbert hoped that was for reasons other than his fondness for Annette, with the two of them having met in the first place during one of Hanneman’s tutoring sessions, and that his manner of discussion was genuinely engaging. But if it were not-  _ well _ , Gilbert considered,  _ it would hardly be the end of the world _ . 

He was, of course, happy to simply listen to Hanneman talk. He suspected that he always would be. 

After a while, however, there was likely some topic that brought them away from the main body of their conversation. An errant statement, or expression of opinion, which opened up another conversational gateway. The sort of trailing conversations which could keep them enraptured for hours, completely forgetting the presence of their refreshments. 

That time, Gilbert had mentioned his meeting with Manuela.

“I’m glad you’ve taken her advice.” Hanneman had muttered, tone affirming and amicable. “For all of the…  _ contention _ in our relationship, I cannot deny her abilities. And not solely because she outclasses me in all forms of physical combat.”

Indeed, Gilbert knew of Manuela’s experience with the handle of a sword. If he thought back to Manuela taking her notes on her paper, he could almost call her handling of the quill akin to a soldier’s handling of a blade. He liked Hanneman- but he could not refute the likelihood that Manuela could best him in physical combat. Instead, he took a considered bite of one of the biscuits which Hanneman had laid out for them that afternoon. 

As Gilbert chewed, Hanneman continued onwards, clearly happy to speak to the near-silence. 

“Of course, Manuela hasn’t told me what she prescribed you. Only that you met, and that you took it all much better than she’d expected you to.”

  
Gilbert swallowed, sharp, and flashed Hanneman an unamused look. Still, Manuela’s lack of optimism towards him was not something he could pretend was baseless. To his credit, Hanneman only smiled, wrapping slender magic-scarred fingers through the fragile porcelain loop of the leaf-patterned teacup placed adjacent to him. 

“You’re the stubborn sort. And you always act with such suspicion towards the people who just want to do right by you.”

The statement reminded Gilbert of their first real conversations. When Hanneman had insisted on befriending him, and Gilbert had responded with- in retrospect, _ greatly _ impolite- inquiries as to why Hanneman might seek out his companionship, gruff and crestless as he was. He supposed it was fortunate, then, that Hanneman was similarly, self-admittedly, stubborn.

“It is a herbal remedy.” Gilbert stated plainly, before taking, too, his own teacup into his hand. 

  
Hanneman’s brow furrowed for a moment, trying to ferret the meaning of such a statement from Gilbert’s placid expression, before he recalled the earlier mention of Manuela’s medicine. At the realization, a slight smile returned to his face. 

“I understand that some herbal ingredients can influence sleep. When I studied in Enbarr, I know that some of the other students used stimulative effects to ward away the need for a restful night. If only temporarily, of course.”

Gilbert quirked his eyebrows at the assertion. “And you did not?”

“As if I need some sort of  _ herb  _ to make me occupy my entire night with study.” 

If Gilbert were the man for it, he might have assumed study to have indicated something less innocuous. But, hardly the man for innuendo, he has found no issue with the statement on its surface; simply nodding in time with Hanneman’s statement on the matter. 

“You’re likely to be taking something much different, however. Quelling dreams isn’t a realm I’m familiar with, unfortunately.”

“I do not understand it myself,” Gilbert confessed, “and I doubt that I ever shall. None of its supposed effects have manifested, either.”

“Oh?”

“Manuela informed me that the remedy is the fickle sort. When it works, it does so gradually, and only after consistent use.”

  
  


“Have you been using it consistently, my dear Gilbert?”

Gilbert nodded, affirmative. Hanneman’s smile deepened, and Gilbert felt the sweet warmth of approval settle in his stomach. He placed the teacup to one side, just as Hanneman took a further sip from his drinking vessel. 

“Then, I hope that it’ll do you some good. Goddess knows you deserve it, hm?”

-

Two weeks in, Gilbert’s dreams had not ceased. 

They had, however,  _ changed _ . In the place of horrid violence and shredded rememberings was, more often than not, things which felt equally vivid and real as they played out in his mind, but which lacked the most apparent distressing features. Some disoriented him- others confused him. Incorrectly assembled animals pranced around locations stitched crudely together from the various places Gilbert had been throughout his earlier life, their calls and songs indescribable and unattributable. His body was strange, and often uncooperative, foisting him unwillingly across the strange landscapes his subconscious only now seemed used to creating. They matched, more than anything, the dreams Annette had described to him in her youth; littered with sweet animals and indulgent meals. 

They were fantasies. Not necessarily pleasant ones, for Gilbert was not the sort to adjust to the new so quickly. But he was ready- eager, even- to accept them over the nightmares which might have haunted him otherwise. He took the remedy with persistence, a consistent attempt, becoming easier each night it was done correctly. 

Some days, he did not dream. On sparse days, another nightmare would come. But things were changing, even if he did not expect the manner in which they did. He had begun to dream of the living, not solely the dead- Hanneman and Annette were the most frequent appearances, followed by Manuela and Dimitri. 

Sometimes, he’d come face to face with himself, and notice how the bags underneath his eyes had, ever-so-slightly, declined.

-

At the end of the first month, he met once more with Manuela.

He’d been called into the private infirmary office at the end of the day, when nobody was around to see him do so. Increasingly cold weather prevented people from huddling anywhere a draft could reach, and though the chill could pinch, he was more than used to it. Almost-empty pouch in hand, he’d taken seat in the same chair he’d sat in a month prior to the meeting.

It felt much like their previous meeting, all things considered. Except for the way he felt- clearer, as if the voice in his mind spoke in coherent sentences rather than discontented mumbles. One of the effects of more sleep, he assumed.

Manuela greeted him only a minute after his arrival, waving away the young boy who had been managing her admissions for the day. He waved fondly at Manuela before departing, Gilbert feeling some latent cheer at the sight of such youthful energy. 

When he’d departed fully, Manuela began to speak. 

“It’s good to see you here. According to Hanneman- well, you’ve been taking the remedy consistently.”

Gilbert nodded, somewhat flustered. 

“That is… true. I have done my utmost to make sure that I have taken a suitable dosing each night.” He gripped his robes tight in his hands, pensive about continuing. “But I have not found that the medicine has the intended effect.”

Manuela’s eyes narrowed, and she retrieved a piece of parchment and quill that Gilbert hadn’t even noticed were placed on her desk. Gilbert felt, once more, strange at the prospect of having his selfhood written down for the observation of others. But if he had pushed the previous meeting out of his mind, then he was sure he could do the same for this.

“Go on.” The soft, feathered tip of the quill danced as Manuela scratched something into the paper- Gilbert guessed it was his name.

“My dreams have not ceased. Instead, they are becoming strange, and oft-vivid. However-” Gilbert coughed before continuing- “I have found that they do not interrupt my sleep so direly. They are not alarming, or worthy of fear.”

“Hm.” The scratching picked up once more, Manuela taking words down on the sheet with a pace that left Gilbert rather stunned. It took her only a second to look back upwards at him, eyes owllike and perceptive. “I’ll admit that I’ve heard of cases like this. But, only rarely. It’s not a typical effect, that’s for sure.”

“Does it pose any harm to me?” Gilbert inquired, hands digging into his robe. To his relief, Manuela shook her head. 

  
“In the cases that I’ve read about- and I’d like to say that I’ve read most, if not all- vivid dreams aren’t harmful. As long as you don’t mind them, that is.”

Gilbert shook his head, calm. “They are… preferable. Strange, but preferable.”

“Over the nightmares?”

“Yes.” A deep shudder ran through Gilbert’s body- though he had experienced the dark dreams for years on end, and gotten used to them, they remained unpleasant to think of. “I find that my sleep is not so disturbed, and I do not wake distressed.”

“Well! I’m pleased to hear that. And I’d like to thank you for agreeing to the remedy in the first place, you know.”

Despite the tension which had so recently flowed through his body, Gilbert could not entirely suppress a chuckle. 

“I do not know what good I have done for you, Manuela. Certainly, it cannot compare to what you have done for me”

To his surprise, Manuela shook her head. 

“Nonsense. You’re one of the most experienced people sticking around at Garreg Mach, you know.” A warm smile was planted firmly on Manuela’s face, and Gilbert could not cease being charmed by it. “The more sprightly you’re feeling, the better for all of us. I trust that you’ll train the students to behave properly around those sharp weapons- you’ll cut my workload significantly, you know.”

Humbly, Gilbert lowered his head, as if to make a vow. 

“I will make an honourable endeavour to educate our students in safe use and storage of blades. I hope that you will accept that as the smallest thanks I can offer you for such assistance, though I cannot say that it is anywhere near the reparations you deserve.”

“Oh, you flatter me.” Manuela chuckled, dropping her quill onto a previously-stained piece of blotting paper. “You’ll find that I’ve been doing nothing but my job. Though I do appreciate your knightly commitment, Sir Gilbert.”

“It is of no burden to me, Lady Manuela.”

-

Following a short yet spirited conversation, Gilbert departed the infirmary, another pouch of herbal remedy tucked into the pocket of his robes. He noted to himself, as he had done each day since he received the first dose, that he would need to re-empty the mixture into the small bowl he’d been using ever since the first pouch gained a slight tear. Before that, he would have to open the letter he had received from Annette- paying attention to such things was made easier by his new well-rested state, but it was never easy. 

Still, he owed it to her. And he could not say that he disliked the prospect, either. Annette was living the wonderful life she had always deserved, and he could not be more happy for her. To hear more about her adventures and her trials was a joy that he felt he could ill-afford. He had wronged her- there was to be no escaping that fact. 

_ But _ , Gilbert told himself,  _ you must not cease in providing her unselfish joy, with no regard to your own guilt _ .

-

Regardless of the remedy, some nights remained entirely sleepless.

Five nights after meeting with Manuela, and receiving the second dosage of the remedy, Gilbert had sighted- something, on his walk home. Two young knights, one who held a vague familiarity with Gilbert, walking down one of the passages of Garreg Mach. Holding hands- sneaking kisses, even- when they believed the darkness obscured their presence a little. 

Truly, Gilbert had not wished to follow them. But there was a sole route to their dormitories, and he could not remain on his feet for much longer after the day’s training. His sole way to avoid them was to lag behind them, moving so slowly that they were not alerted to his presence. 

It  _ had _ worked. But he had not been able to guard himself from the sound of their voices- or the realization that his young comrade was not consorting with one of the female knights (a potential behavioural issue, but not rule-breaking), but was instead associating with  _ another _ young man. The knowledge had frozen him in place, preventing him from walking any further, and facing the emotions it could have easily evoked in him. Despite the cold, and the weakness of his knees, Gilbert remained outside until the coast was entirely, indubitably clear. Only then had he slipped back into his dormitory, neglecting to undress upon his entry, coming to rest in his bed entirely clothed. 

Gilbert brought to mind an- intriguing, for lack of better terminology, tale from his youth as a knight-in-training, and later as a commander. A story, told in hushed whispers and fits of nervous giggling, of how two men might be inclined to partner with each other. How they could slot together for the purposes of arousal, in a similar fashion that a man and a woman would do- should do, in the opinion of those around him. With the application of lubricant, entry of the organ could be achieved through the- back- and through this process, climax was achieved. When he spelled it out in his head; it felt rather distasteful, or at least unappealing. He could only conceptualize it in the way his superiors had described it- as something which was to be discouraged amongst the soldiers at all costs, lest order be disturbed. But, though the exact act had never been described in such conversations, he’d known his fellow soldiers to have indulged in it- not solely due to the absence of women, either. 

He could not cease his recollection of one time, in his youth, where he had seen something much the same between two trusted comrades. 

Around a campfire, when two more senior warriors had believed everyone firmly asleep. He had not seen the act- but he had heard it. Each moan and cry, each word of tender love exchanged between the ever-close pair, the sheer  _ sound _ of bodies unifying. Stock-still in his tent, lest the movement of his shadow disturb the coupling, it had made him ache. Not just in body, but in soul. A sort of trembling, febrile feeling, close to the one which occupied his dream. 

_ Wanting _ . 

After the scene had concluded, and he was sure no other presence remained, he’d finished himself to that scene. Already painfully aroused, he saw few other ways to sleep soundly for the night- they were to hike the next morning, and to do so on low sleep was undesirable at best. Despite the disgust which had been trained into him, it had felt _ good _ \- better than any woman he’d tried to please himself to, better than the imagined sensation of _ regular  _ sex. All bound in the thought of being touched,  _ fucked _ , by another man. He had finished with great energy, leaving him  _ aching _ for the comfort of his bedroll. 

The next day, he’d been horrified. 

He’d considered the actions of his squadmates out of his jurisdiction- certainly, he would be a hypocrite to report them, regardless of what he believed was appropriate. But the sin of his own hand was apparent in the white stains which still coated it, uncleaned since the night prior. Some tainted honey was dripping down him, marking him as unforgivable in the eyes of the Goddess. 

That morning, he’d prayed longer than he’d ever done before, nearly delaying their departure in his fervour. It had not made him feel clean- he was beginning to wonder if he ever could be. But it was better than nothing- so long as he did not indulge in such things once more. 

To recount the story, even solely to himself, tired him greatly. He had gone to such great lengths to repress it- to repress what he had seen, to repress how he behaved. Uncovering each small detail, still vivid in their intricacy, felt positively  _ momentous _ . And that was to say nothing of the mental strain involved in processing such a thing, as if one of his old wounds had just opened itself, as raw and bloody as the day he’d acquired it. Though he had struggled to sleep before reciting it to himself, he felt without recourse other than immediate rest once he had finished. 

Indeed, for the first time since its prescription, he had not taken the remedy before he became still in his bed. 

A nightmare overtook him in his sleep; the first one in a while. 

A great beast, black as tar and writhing, transforming even as he looked upon it, raised its head in front of him. The teeth within its snarling maw were made for nought but violence, and he did not doubt for a moment that he would not survive an encounter with the wretched claws it had tucked into its three-fingered hand. 

He had, once more, the feeling that he had encountered such a thing- or something very close to it- before. He was certainly not surrounded by the infinite darkness of the void, broken only by the feeling of his boots on hard stone, when he had encountered it first; however. With no idea where to step, or whether to run from it was even possible, he stilled in place. Kneeled, as if the Goddess could help him where he was, as if she cared for  _ him _ at all. 

More than anything, he could not shake the feeling that this monster- as undoubtedly as it was  _ monstrous _ \- could so easily be him. It could so easily be one of the people he cared deeply for; or a simple acquaintance,  _ transformed _ into this- _ thing _ . The idea of such a horrifying being, still bearing down on him, being once-human, spawned such a great terror in his heart that he could no longer breathe well, or compel his body to move one inch. 

His recognition of the creature did not make anything more fortunate. 

_ Miklan _ . 

He was back in Conand Tower, embarking on one of the earliest missions he’d been called to assist with as part of his work with Byleth. Watching the eldest Gautier son warp in such a horrifying fashion, the manifestation of each graphic warning he’d received from his parents that the Hero’s Relic of House Dominic was  _ not _ to enter his grasp. Knowing that if he had ever gone against their warning, such a fate could have befallen him. 

Somehow, it was worse than every description of the consequences he’d ever been given, and the context of a dream made that no better. 

He did, however, remember something else. The aftermath of that day- the first time he and Hanneman had spoken, save for one time when Byleth had invited them both to dinner. It was amongst the sparse few times they had conversed before the war, and when Gilbert thought of it, it held little of the pleasant comfort that their future conversations had contained. Really, for the most part, Gilbert forgot it had happened at all. 

That night, he had not sought Hanneman out; not necessarily. But he had questions for him, should they meet. About what he saw in there, and about the effects that the Hero’s Relics could have on those who did not bear crests. To his endless surprise, such a situation had come to pass- he had collided with Hanneman outside of the dining hall, late at night, finally hungry enough to compensate for how the events of the past few days had soured his appetite. 

Initially, he had not spoken, aside from issuing the requisite apology for their bumping into each other. Luckily, Hanneman had not been carrying any food on him, and their clothes remained unstained. Rather; it had dawned on Gilbert that if he truly wished to ask the questions he had, then it was best for him to do it then, before he pushed the subject from his mind entirely. 

He had asked, then, whether Hanneman had known the results of their mission. They’d been instructed to keep it hush, and Gilbert loathed to disobey orders, but he had heard stories of Hanneman’s perseverance, and if the Church sought someone to research the event- which he hoped they would- then it would undoubtedly be him.  _ There will be no harm in it _ , he’d told himself. 

He had not been surprised to find that Hanneman knew of the incident; indeed, he knew of it in a depth that Gilbert had not expected of him. Relieved that he hadn’t put his position in peril during a moment of rashness, he’d immediately inquired as to whether he could tell him anything more about the incident. 

Hanneman had only sighed, and faced him with a sincere expression. 

“This is not unique. I do not doubt that we will see it again.”

Despite the fearsome prospect of such, Hanneman had provided him some strange comfort. Someone  _ understood _ what he saw, even in the smallest sense. There were answers, and though he had no real reason to, he  _ trusted _ that Hanneman would find them. 

In the dream, that memory comforted him. He found the figure dissipating in front of him, leaving behind nought but a pile of black ash- not a corpse, thankfully. At its disappearance, he choked, as if he were being  _ dragged _ from the dream. 

He awoke in his room, alone. Still-clothed, with the sunrise peeking over the horizon. The herbal remedy untaken, and his sleep for the night ruined.

He resolved to himself to make sure he continued, rather than allowing a single night of weakness to disturb the schedule he had created for himself. He clung, also, to Hanneman, attempting to ward away his thoughts with the simple charm of his companionship. 

It had worked, in the sense that he did not think more of either distressing thing until the night which followed. 

Still, he drank the tea. 

-

Fifteen days later, Gilbert had found himself stumped for a response. 

The last letter from Annette- which he had opened on the day he received the second portion of the remedy- had teased at something that made Gilbert’s heart skip a beat. “A romantic interest”, she’d stated, with no further clarification on the matter. 

And Gilbert had known that it wasn’t his place to intrude on the matter. If she were to never tell him, that would be her right. But her teasing was oft an invitation to ask further questions; it reminded him most distinctly of the times she would approach him with something clutched behind her back and force him to chance as many guesses as he could towards the nature of the item. Which had all been very entertaining- until the time Annette had plucked a poisonous toad from the bushes by the estate’s pond, incurring several days of worrying illness.

It had not, however, been the time to remind himself of fond memories. Not when he was sat across from Hanneman, letter in hand, struggling to even begin conveying his feelings. For the next letter he’d received, after his own response to the first included no attempt to intuit anything about the person in question, had been nothing close to the last one in terms of elusiveness- it was stated, in no uncertain terms, who Annette had begun a relationship with. 

Mercedes. A dear friend of Annette’s. One that Gilbert trusted and respected deeply for her contributions to the war, for that matter.

One of her  _ female _ friends. 

“You’ve been silent on the topic of that letter, dear Gilbert. Will I have to weasel the truth from you once more?”

Hanneman had picked up on Gilbert’s internal conflict moments after he entered the room. Truthfully, Gilbert had not intended to raise the subject of the letter with him at all, though it had remained in his pocket on the off chance that an answer both effusive and neutral occurred to him at some strange time. His efforts had been dashed, however, by Hanneman’s perpetual intuition, and his noticing of the fact that Gilbert’s sour mood and poor attention span coincided with the fold of some paper pressing against the outer pocket of his robes. Gilbert had slipped the thing from his pocket as soon as Hanneman mentioned it- mostly to prove it was not a criminal summons, or something equally drastic. But underneath Hanneman’s inquisitive gaze, he had not managed to return it to its place, and had instead attempted to continue the conversation without acknowledging its presence in the middle of their tea-table. 

Such an act of double-think, however, had not proved successful. The paper served as a constant reminder to Gilbert of his conflict, and he could not focus on Hanneman’s pleasantries as deeply as he usually did. Moreover, it was clearly catching Hanneman’s attention, with Gilbert only having provided him the faintest of details as to its contents. This did not surprise Gilbert- Hanneman was not the sort of person to leave such an evident stone unturned. 

All things considered, he was rather tempted to have Hanneman read it himself, solely so he could understand the strange dilemma which had been foisted upon him. 

“About the letter?” Gilbert inquired, though in a broadly rhetorical sense. He noticed that he’d picked up some scholarly speech from Hanneman over the months, though he was not entirely skilled at employing it. “I have already answered your questions on the matter. I am not being summoned to my certain death. Nor my probable one, for that matter.”

“Yes,” Hanneman conceded, “you’ve made that clear to me. But you can’t imagine that your reassurance is the sole thing I’m looking for.”

“You find my personal business so entertaining?”

“Ah.” Hanneman chuckled. “It’s a personal letter, then.”

_ How short-sighted of me _ , Gilbert thought to himself, _ to fall into such an obvious trap _ .

Gilbert grunted, briefly, a grudging acceptance of the information which had been poached from him. With a slow movement of his hand, he slid the piece of fine stationery paper towards Hanneman’s side of the table, leaving it resting against the plate his scholarly friend had stacked high with biscuits much too sweet for Gilbert’s taste. 

“If you are so intrigued by its contents,” Gilbert started, a flustered edge to his voice, “then you may read it yourself.”

Despite his clear inclination towards knowing the contents of the correspondence, Hanneman’s expression at Gilbert’s offering was closer to confusion than any sort of happiness. He slid the letter further towards himself, but did not break eye contact with Gilbert as he did. 

“You’ve changed your mind quite suddenly.” he pointed out. “Are you entirely sure about such a decision?”

  
“I trust that you’re not planning to attempt anything untowards with the information inside. Though I would appreciate if you did _ not _ tell Annette that I have allowed you to read this over.  _ Which _ ”- Gilbert’s voice deepened for emphasis- “I allow of you because I, frankly, am at my wit’s end with the content of this letter.”

Hanneman hummed, brief, considering something. “A challenging letter from Annette.” he mumbled, almost a minute later, having not touched the letter since Gilbert had given him permission. 

“Are you waiting for something?”

Hanneman shook his head, albeit absentmindedly. “Not particularly. If anything, I should hurry, as my tea is already growing cold.”

They’d moved inside, now, during teatime; the November weather was not as kind as it would be in Enbarr, not as fierce as it would be in Fhirdiad, and thus was not welcoming for either of them. Hanneman’s study, undisturbed as it often was, provided them a better place to sit and fraternize. 

“With that said,” Hanneman continued, “I am trying my earnest best to guess what the issue at hand might be.” 

A grimace spread across Gilbert’s face.

“I doubt that your exercise in prediction will be fruitful.”

Hanneman studied Gilbert’s expression for a moment, lips quirking upwards at the sight of his strangely troubled face. “It must be rather severe. You look as if you’ve seen fire fall from the sky, my dear.”

Gilbert did not dignify Hanneman’s analogy with a response- other than a weak, lonely sigh. Such a gesture served to make Hanneman chuckle, though reservedly. 

“Is your daughter expecting a noble bastard, hm?” 

“No.” Gilbert’s response was almost immediate, as if he had expected the idea to be Hanneman’s first line of inquiry. “It is almost to the contrary, in fact.”

“The contrary?” Hanneman stammered, as if thrown out of his conversational comfort zone. “I find it hard to imagine what the opposite of a conception is. Aside from the loss of a child- if such is the case, then-”

“It is not that. If it were such a sensitive matter, I would have left for Fhirdiad with nought but brief notice.” Gilbert asserted. “Perhaps my phrasing has confused the matter somewhat.”

“I do find it difficult to intuit what you may be referring to.”

“It would be best, then,” Gilbert retorted, “for you to read the letter, as you have been waiting to do.”

Hanneman did not offer any reply, but with considered motion, he swept the paper from where it lay on the table. He unfolded it at the joins where it had been altered to fit in the envelope, the full breadth of the letter opening in front of him. He adjusted his monocle slightly, and begun to read from the sheet. 

Though Hanneman’s consumption of the text was silent, save for a few murmurings where Gilbert could hear familiar words repeated under his companion’s breath, he did react, and Gilbert found himself surveying Hanneman’s face for any response to the content. The statement which had caused him such consternation was located below halfway down, and his eyes tried instinctively to meet Hanneman’s approximate eyeline relative to the letter. Though he found it hard to be precise, it was not difficult for him to recognize when Hanneman had dipped below the central fold of the letter- particularly because one of his hands had shifted downwards on the paper for better grip. With close attention, he waited for Hanneman’s expression to change into one of shock, or at the very least quizzicality. 

When nothing changed, and Hanneman’s expression remained mostly neutral throughout, Gilbert could not stifle a confounded expression. 

_ Has he read it improperly? Or has he simply failed to process the implications of the content? _

As Gilbert tried his utmost to comprehend Hanneman’s relative ambivalence towards the contents of the letter, he found the paper of the aforementioned document being slipped once more underneath his waiting fingers. 

“While I can understand your potential consternation at Annette finding employment at the School of Magic,” Hanneman warbled, “I do not necessarily believe it will make your bloodline fruitless. It is true that I have not borne children- but consider that a personal decision, rather than one Annette will find to be the only option as a professor.” 

The expression that Gilbert gained as a result of Hanneman’s waving-away of the issue could only be described as  _ baffled _ . 

“I- I promise you that I do not find Annette’s employment troubling. To the contrary; I intend to support her in her endeavours. And I must thank you for providing her with such inspiration.”

“There are no thanks required,” Hanneman intruded, “to create a new generation of scholars is my job.” 

It took a moment for Gilbert to begin speaking again, flustered as he was by Hanneman’s sudden assertion of thankfulness. 

“...Yes. Well. I hope that it is clear that I do not begrudge her life choices, you understand. My point of issue is related to her relationship.”

“Oh, yes.” Hanneman pondered, sipping lukewarm tea from his cup. “Well, if my opinion on the matter counts for much at all- and I doubt that you’ll find me too much of an expert on the subject, granted- relationships carried out over long distances for some portion of the year do present their own challenges, but they are hardly as doomed to fail as some might presume. Particularly when the partners are of good character.”

Gilbert stammered, lost for words, hardly for the first time in their conversations. But Hanneman was sure he had not said anything to tease Gilbert- not this time, anyway- and looked upon the disarray of his mouth with slight concern. 

“Do you take issue with Ms von Martritz?”

Stunned, Gilbert shook his head.

“Ah. Well, even if I do not have to reassure you of this, I will tell you that she has been nothing but pleasant towards me and Manuela. Admittedly, we have not conversed extensively, but she is a wonderfully kind healer.”

“...You- do you miss the source of my troubles?”

“If it is not with Annette’s employment, and it is not with her choice of partner, then I see no reason to be as troubled as you are. Unless you take issue with the purchase of a small dog- which, granted, may be an impulsive choice, but I am sure that Annette will deal with the challenge just fine.”

Gilbert’s eyes narrowed, brows remaining furrowed. In his conflict, he had near-entirely overlooked the subject of the dog- even now, he had no complaints about it. Nor did he question Mercedes’ character. He was beginning to believe Hanneman was acting deliberately obtuse, lest he be dragged into Gilbert’s stormy thoughts. 

“It is not the dog. I do not have a problem with dogs.” Gilbert insisted. “The topic of my consternation is the relationship, yes. Though I do not take issue with the character of Mercedes von Martritz.”

In the span of a second, Hanneman’s expression warped from a teasingly quizzical upturned mouth to one of gradual realization, as if the meaning of Gilbert’s words had only just began to sink in. He quickly folded his arms, as if preparing to guard himself in the face of a rapid change in the nature of the conversation. In response to Hanneman’s changing body language, Gilbert’s head sank downwards. 

“It is her evident attraction to women, then, that causes you such problems?” 

Though Gilbert could not tell why, Hanneman’s tone was suddenly much more brusque, though simultaneously somber. Still, he nodded. 

“I do not wish to interfere with Annette’s choice of partner. The Goddess knows I lost such privileges long ago, as well as I know such too.” he admitted, voice sullen. “But I am- worried that my inattention to her could have changed her affections.”

“I would cast my doubt towards that, frankly.” Hanneman muttered. “I do not think such a thing is possible- though I cannot say for sure that you have not soured her opinion of men, from what I know of the subject, there is nought that can be done to change such-  _ tastes _ .” 

“Ah.” Gilbert’s response was terse, heavy with unspoken sentiment. “It is inherited, then…?”

Hanneman responded with an absent shrug. “I could not tell you. Most I have met said that it is subject to the whims of fate. Or the Goddess.” 

“I suppose that there is little I can do, then.” Gilbert spoke the words with defeat, and Hanneman flashed him a look of concern. “It is a shame. I wish nothing but happiness for her, you understand.”

“Of course,” Hanneman replied, “but I do not believe I understand how that connects to your desire to change her romantic orientation.”

“You must be aware of the shame of it, Hanneman. To feel such a way for a member of your own sex- it is a troubling matter.”

“For some,” Hanneman retorted, “and I know that many have succumbed to the taboo. But has the text of the Goddess ever condemned such relations?”

Gilbert could only sit, stunned, as if he were comprehending something immense and terrifying. At the sight of it, Hanneman smirked. 

“I do not ask you rhetorically, Gilbert. Of the two of us, who is the man of greatest faith?”

“...You refer to myself.” he murmured, still unsure of the words which came from his mouth. Hanneman surveyed his face for some sign of him coming across a statement to the contrary but in his eyes, he could tell that there was nothing but dead ends in the scripture of the Goddess regarding the issue. 

Eventually, he surrendered to the inevitable.

“I do not believe so.” 

“So the Goddess does not disapprove.” 

“The Goddess intends for us to disperse, and to remain obedient-”

“It is true that for such a couple, there are additional barriers to reproduction. But it is not impossible- not necessarily. Besides, the goddess only  _ suggests _ such of us. Does the Goddess reject the childless, or those who have become abstinent through their love of her being?”

Gilbert’s expression was increasingly slack-jawed, face heavy with fresh contemplation. Hanneman took it as a sign to press further.

“I do not think she does. In the scripture you have exposed me to through your morning prayers, the Goddess is shown to condemn only the evil and the wrong-doers.”

“There are those who would regard such affections as wrongdoing-” 

“The nobles who squabble for eligible spouses, and who push their children into the fray of some conflict they could not have possibly asked to take part in?” Hanneman interjected, voice rigid with tension. “The self-interested cannot be trusted to set out any reasonable morality. They will permit what they see fit, and outlaw what disadvantages them.”

While Gilbert was not sure if he could agree so passionately with Hanneman’s perspective; he did not entirely doubt it. Though his companion had been squirrelly on some details relating to the exact circumstances, he had relayed the tale of his sister to Gilbert in a state of near-tears. It was one of great grief, and he could not have made himself feel anything but an aching sympathy in the pit of his stomach. There was no world in which he could allow a fate even marginally similar for Annette. 

Still, the messages of his childhood growled within him. That he was to marry, and he was to continue his lineage, even without the blessing of a crest within him. His brother had not borne a crest, and his mother could no longer bear children- for that reason, he was the best hope of his pedigree’s continuation. No dalliance or misery was to be allowed regarding the matter, and all of his goals- of knighthood, of commitment to his country- were to be dashed if he disobeyed. 

How he had wished, long ago, to disobey. To do what called him from the moment that he could understand why adults held each other so close, feeling what was so deeply forbidden. A corruption inside of him which Gilbert deeply hoped he had not passed down to Annette. 

In the end, the shame had deepened to a point where he could no longer hope to excise it, the words against such relations growing stronger as he entered his training. He had chosen a path of denial;  _ promising _ to himself that he would not regret doing so. 

A burst of speech from Hanneman brought Gilbert out of the fury of his thought.

“Do you consider it wrongdoing, Gilbert?”

The prompt stunned him; the seconds he stalled in shock after its asking felt akin to months, perhaps years. At first, he could only stammer. 

He had. He had taken what others had told him for granted, and placed his own understanding, own desire, as something insignificant to his view of the world. 

But he was no longer so scared; so boyish.

“I do not. Though I know there are many who do not feel such things. And I wonder if Annette would not be happier remaining ignorant to such opinions.”

“Could you be happy, Gilbert, as me? As a crest researcher, smooth-handed and necessitating a knight to assist me with any heavy lifting I require doing?” 

Gilbert shook his head. He did not look down on Hanneman’s work, or his position- it was perfectly admirable and worthwhile. But, even if he had the mind for it (which he was sure he did not), he could not imagine himself making that choice. To be forced into such a role would be miserable. 

“Just as I would find no joy in your long marches and heavy armour, you would find no joy in my life. Even if such a life could, say, make you rich, or beloved amongst women.”

“...Does your profession make you beloved amongst women..?” Gilbert inquired. Though his question was sincere, he could see Hanneman’s brow uncrease and the corners of his lips quirk upwards, as if he had told some rather amusing joke.

“Gilbert. I am endeared by many things about you, and the fact that after this conversation you even assume I would  _ want _ the attention of  _ women _ is one of them.”

_ Is he saying what I believe he is saying? _

“Oh.”

A silence hung between the two of them, disrupted only by the slight impact of rushing wind on the exterior window. Neither felt as if they could move, or speak, though Hanneman looked downwards with a greater silent dismay than Gilbert had ever seen from him before. 

“Perhaps this helps you understand why I feel so passionately about young Annette’s choices. How my parents felt about me- what they obliged of me- had never sat right. Though I do not see you doing such a thing to Annette out of malice, nor Annette accepting your insistence on the matter, I do not wish for your relationship to fracture further.”

A nauseous silence coiled inside of Gilbert, every instinct in his body attuned to forcing him to remain in place, lest he bolt. 

  
“Prior to the death of my parents, I had not spoken to either of them for twenty years.” 

Such a statement turned Gilbert’s silence from stunned to feared. The prospect of Annette growing to hate him once more, even after their reconciliation, left a taste in his mouth which he could not believe would wash away easily. 

But it was not solely his feelings toward Annette which sparked such desperate fear. It was the knowledge that what Hanneman had felt was so deeply unpleasant, so great in its hopelessness, that it had factored into his retreat from noble life and abandonment of his family.

It was the knowledge that Hanneman had left, and that he had not. That other men who felt like him, not solely in their affections but in their fear of them, existed at all.

That Hanneman had diverted his eyes from Gilbert’s face, and was preparing to leave.

“I hoped that I would not have to tell you this.” Hanneman muttered, sighing. “But, if this is how you feel about such things, then it is perhaps for the best that I depart before I become further attached.”

Processing the words was a task which Gilbert took to with great difficulty. Indeed, by the time he had fully absorbed the implications behind them, Hanneman had stepped from his chair, abandoning the food and drink he had procured at his vacant seat. 

“I hope that this will not make you reconsider remaining at Garreg Mach.” Hanneman was no longer facing Gilbert as he spoke, and his words had taken on a distant quality that  _ sickened _ him with guilt. “We would be honoured to welcome you.”

He had taken only a single step before a shaking hand wrapped around his wrist. 

“Do not.” Gilbert pleaded. Hanneman had twitched under the sudden touch- which Gilbert had loosened at the sensation of resistance- but he did not look back towards where he had once sat, or towards Gilbert. “I cannot communicate how I feel as I would like to do. But I  _ promise you _ \- more earnestly than I have promised anything in my life- that I do not feel how you believe I feel about what you have said.”

Hanneman stilled for a minute, before beginning to speak once more.

“And how do I believe you feel?”

“You believe that I judge you.” Gilbert choked out. “That I hate you, or that you disgust me. I cannot express the extent to which none of these things are true.” 

Hanneman turned back towards Gilbert, setting him somewhat more at ease. Still, the forced detachment was evident in his eyes, which looked to be on the edge of being flooded with tears. 

“It has proved to be something of a shock. But I do not feel how you assume I might- so, please. Do not leave so hastily.”

Comfortingly, Hanneman had paused in his exit. Though his gaze still questioned Gilbert’s intentions, he was no longer walking towards the door, potentially leaving Gilbert’s life forever.

To him, everything had only just begun. 

“Do not be insincere.” Hanneman insisted, instinctively wrenching his arm out of Gilbert’s grip. Still, he remained in place.

“...You should not let your tea become cold. I made it for you, and you have not changed.”

Though the silence remained, Gilbert could tell that Hanneman’s expression was softening, if only slightly. He no longer leaned towards the door, and his gaze drifted over to where the tea Gilbert had served him had indeed already become cold.

“There are things I wish to talk with you about.”

-

Hanneman had not left. He had, as Gilbert wished, remained, finishing the last dredges of tea and cake while Gilbert looked on expectantly. Truthfully, e hoped that Hanneman’s return would serve to make the situation less awkward, but tension had hung in the air for longer than Gilbert felt comfortable with, the two of them foisted into a deafening silence. 

Gilbert could tell that Hanneman was waiting for him to speak. His monocle-fiddling was becoming increasingly impatient each minute, and he was no longer making moves for the few stray biscuits left stranded on the dish set out. He had remained in this space, which had so suddenly turned hostile, because there were things Gilbert wished to mention. There was no other purpose for him here- something about his anxious motions reminded Gilbert of a caged bird, wings clipped for display. 

It was something that he could not stand. Not when it was him who had placed Hanneman in such a dilemma- not when he was the one hesitating, taking up precious time. 

He would have to _ say it _ .

Despite the knowledge that Hanneman was much like him; albeit having pursued his… _ behaviours _ , rather than remaining obedient to his family, the prospect still felt horrifyingly perilous. To speak the truth to himself, let alone anyone else, was something he had learned to be so deeply shameful that he could never recover from it. No kind presence could make such a thing easier, could make him comfortable in doing so. 

_ But _ \- Gilbert reminded himself- he had to be  _ realistic _ . Hanneman had surrendered the same perilous information to him, and Gilbert had never known him to lie, nor did it make any sense for him to do so in the situation at hand. If he were to say these things, then Hanneman would have precious little complaint. Perhaps they could even relate to each other- perhaps Hanneman would tell him how it felt to be by the side of another man-  _ they could _ \- 

_ No _ . He wasn’t to think like that. He had things to say, and he had to say them. All other desires were irrelevant. 

“Hanneman.” Gilbert began. Though he had summoned the words he wished to say in his mind many times, to keep them in focus felt like a losing battle, a constant struggle against surmounting anxiety. “I apologize for keeping you.”

“I do not mind.” Despite Hanneman’s acquiescence to his continued presence, Gilbert suspected that he was, indeed, waiting for something.

“Nonsense. You must be rather tired of my indecision.”

“Whatever you’re thinking about- it seems to trouble you quite drastically. Are you still unsure about your response to Annette?”

“No. I believe I know what I will send to her.” Truthfully, Gilbert didn’t know. Not exactly. But he intended to take Hanneman’s advice on the matter, and refuse any encouragement to conform to some other ideal. After all, how could he? 

“So the problem lies elsewhere. Do you wish to know anything more about my predilections?”

“...No. Or, rather, it is not exactly like that.”

As if the normal conversational order resumed, Hanneman took a delicate bite from a biscuit left lying on the plate before he responded. 

“Go on.”

A breath caught in Gilbert’s throat. He was, after all, approaching one of the greatest perils he had ever been able to conceive of.

“You said that these things-  _ particular _ attentions- are random. And that the individual does nothing to incur them.”

Another nibble concluded, Hanneman’s inquisitive gaze having resumed from underneath his eyewear.

“Go on.”

“Is it possible for them to- to  _ change _ ? To go away?”

“I’m sure that my parents would have paid great interest if they could.” Hanneman chuckled. “But- to my knowledge, they cannot. I have met nobody who was able to change those interests inside of them, either.”

_ He was like this. He was like this, and there was no going back on the matter. _

“Would you believe me, then, if I told you that I have felt the same way you have? I have tried- so very hard- to not express such  _ feelings _ , and to become _ good _ , but it is not- it has never felt _ possible _ .” In an instant, desperation had seeped into Gilbert’s voice, and Hanneman’s eyes had gone wide. 

“Your wife-” 

“ _ Please _ . To this day, I am ashamed that I could not-  _ cannot _ \- love her the way she deserves. A wonderful woman, wasted on me.”

“...I believe I understand.” Hanneman’s voice was suddenly kinder- sweeter- than Gilbert had ever known it to be. “Is there anything you wish to talk about?”    
  
“No.” Gilbert choked out, feeling his chest tighten and loosen at once. “I feel as if I have already said too much. But- thank you.”

“There is no need for thanks, my dear Gilbert. When you are ready, you may say what you wish. Until then-” Hanneman’s hand slid from underneath the table to Gilbert’s wrist, holding it in much the same fashion Gilbert had held his so recently- Gilbert obliged him, allowing him to wrap his fingers around its diameter, to raise it from the table into the stillness of the air. “-I wish for you to know that you are not alone.”

Gently, briefly, Hanneman leaned down, head hovering over the hand that Gilbert presented to him. He looked up; waiting for a seal of approval on Gilbert’s face. 

It was when he nodded- a small, weak, nod, but affirmative nonetheless- that Hanneman sunk down, placing a warm, gentle kiss on the broad back of Gilbert’s hand.

Though he could only see Gilbert’s face from the corner of his vision, Hanneman swore that the other man was  _ blushing _ . 

-

Since that day, Gilbert had not been alone.

It had started small- Hanneman coming to check in on him in the mornings, accompanying him out of the door regardless of the day. Gilbert did not doubt that this was a new pain for him, considering his fondness for the indulgence of remaining in bed til late. Still, he seemed happy to oblige it, approaching his room in the knight’s dormitories with a fond and abiding smile firmly planted on his face. For that reason, though Gilbert felt a great need to insist that his companionship was not necessary, he could not stomach the prospect of telling Hanneman that he was not wanted. For he was- and that was where the guilt stemmed from. Yet, he could not bring himself to reject the expression which Hanneman showed him each day, so deeply  _ fond _ , regardless of what Hanneman knew of him. 

Truthfully, he had never considered such a thing possible. 

Their discussion of the subject of romance had been limited. It was not for a lack of things to say; Gilbert was intrigued by the few experiences Hanneman had been able to accumulate, no doubt far more exciting than anything Gilbert had the privilege of experiencing. They’d discussed first crushes; their  _ awakenings _ (as Hanneman termed them), up to and including the experience of being with a man. Gilbert had nothing to offer in the latter conversation, of course, but Hanneman had been patient in his explanations of the differences and pleasures involved in the experience. All of which had left him deeply flustered- still, he could not help but be thankful. 

More than anything, they had kissed. Not in the simple, polite fashion Hanneman had kissed his hand before- on the  _ lips _ . 

That evening had begun in the way most evenings between the two of them did- nested together on Hanneman’s loveseat, facing the fireplace, Hanneman reciting passages from some dry academic text he’d pried from his extensive personal library. Earlier in the evening, they’d discussed one of Annette’s most recent letters to Gilbert- all was well, and Annette was finding her academic career as fulfilling as he’d hoped she’d find it. Though Gilbert could not understand much of the text Hanneman was reciting, their mutual warmth was enough to convince him to remain regardless of what Hanneman did, or what he read. 

Still, the hour had been getting late. Despite their growing affections, Gilbert had not yet mustered the confidence to sleep in Hanneman’s quarters, even in a separate room from him. For that reason, it was ritual for him to return to his own accommodation each night they shared, Hanneman waving him off into the distance as he made the (admittedly short) trek home. He’d gotten up when Hanneman had finished the chapter, giving his respectful goodbyes before shuffling meekly out of the room. 

For the first time, however, Hanneman stopped him. 

“I want to thank you for this, Gilbert.”

Gilbert had stood there, questioning the purpose of thanking him. As far as he was concerned, Hanneman was the one indulging him, and that Gilbert was more likely to be causing trouble. Still, he nodded, acceptant of the kindness Hanneman had deigned to show him. 

“You do not need to thank me for anything.” In the past two months, Gilbert was sure he could have easily said that sentence a thousand times. “I am truly happy to remain in your company. I hope that I have not disappointed you in my lack of contributions to the text.”

“Nonsense. If I expected a lecture, I would have held one. Our nights are there for simple company, not to oblige you in answering the questions of an old man like me.” 

Gilbert had been about to question the reason Hanneman referred to himself as an old man, when in fact Gilbert was several years his senior, but such plans were interrupted by Hanneman’s body coming a step closer, enough that he began to feel his body warmth radiating off of him. 

“With that said, my dear Gilbert- would you mind if I troubled you for a kiss?”

To hear the words- they almost stunned him, left him floating in some surprised state. It took him a while to muster any sort of response- time he spent with his eyes on Hanneman’s face, the way his brow creased as a result of his gentle, accommodating smile. 

“I… do not see why not.”

Though Gilbert would not refer to their companionship as such, for fear of the word, he knew that the most accurate word was something along the lines of courting. Indeed, they had reached the point in such a dynamic where a kiss was hardly a lascivious thing to offer. Still, the prospect flustered him. To touch Hanneman’s lips seemed like much too fine and gentle of an indulgence for someone like him. 

Still. When he considered the fluttering of Hanneman’s eyelashes, and the way soft torchlight cast him in flattering, shadowy angles- who was he to resist?

The touch of Hanneman’s lips on his own felt just as Gilbert had assumed it would- sublime, like the food of the Goddess. When he drew back, he felt as if the moment had ended much too soon, its beauty worth savouring for as long as he lived.

But, it was best to not get ahead of himself. 

“You indulge me, Gilbert.”   
  


Hanneman chuckled, gentle, and a powerful flush spread over Gilbert’s cheeks. He had not been confident enough to assume kissing him was a worthwhile pursuit- but, if he pleased Hanneman, he could get used to these strange affections. 

Perhaps, in time, he could get used to life; all of its strangeness and miracles intertwined. 

“I… Find myself fond of you, Hanneman.”

Hanneman had nodded, as if it were inevitable. 

“I know, my silly goose. I feel much the same.”

  
His hand ghosted over Gilbert’s cheek, embracing the warmth which stemmed from it. 

“Remember to take the herbs tonight. I shall see you tomorrow, dear.” It was a common reminder- Hanneman addressed it to him every night, after hearing word of the nightmare he’d once endured. Gilbert nodded, willing. 

“Of course.”

In that moment, Gilbert felt something he once doubted he could ever feel again- the anticipation, however slight, of another day to be lived. 

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading this fic this far!
> 
> writing this was a very personal thing, based on my own experiences of being newly-medicated and dealing with internalized homophobia. i've always liked gilbert- or at the very least, found him more interesting- than a lot of people i've discussed fe3h with, and wanted to make something that explored in more depth how he might change and begin to deal with the things he's experienced in a healthier manner, as well as touching on his supports with both hanneman and manuela (which, along with his ashe supports, are worth checking out.) 
> 
> it all got a little out of hand and resulted in, well, this.
> 
> this is one of my largest fan projects so far. if you've enjoyed this fic, all kudos and comments are enthusiastically received!
> 
> i'm also @meowcosm on twitter.


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